


Rules are Made to be Broken

by Jaiden_S



Series: Finding Our Way [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sam is a Saint, Steve Has Issues, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaiden_S/pseuds/Jaiden_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is always running headlong into trouble. Bucky worries that one day trouble will get the best of him. He can't always be there to protect him.</p><p>“The man’s never met a rule he didn’t want to break. He’ll go around, over, under and through whatever is in his way, propriety and good sense be damned. You can’t tell him no because he’ll look you in the eye and do it anyway. He may be considered brilliant at strategic planning, but I promise you, 99% of what he does is say, ‘Oh, look. There’s some danger. Let’s walk right into it.’”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules are Made to be Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, Alexcat!
> 
> The story takes place about six weeks after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. It can be read as a stand alone or as companion pieces to two other stories -  
> "Will You Be Here When I Wake Up?" which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2282226  
> “You’re Doing it Wrong” which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2350496  
> "Best Christmas Ever" here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2785697
> 
> The storyline remains the same in all four works. Story #5 will be coming shortly. 
> 
> For more Stucky goodness, tumblr with me! - http://jaiden-s.tumblr.com/

Bucky was dying of boredom. Hydra hadn’t managed to kill him – not yet, anyway – but tedium was damned sure trying. It steadily ate away at his brain like a hungry zombie in one of those god-awful movies he’d been streaming all afternoon. He threw the TV remote onto the coffee table where it landed with a satisfying clatter. “Somebody shoot me.”

The little cottage he’d been sharing with Steve Rogers for the better part of a month responded to his comment with empty silence. Tony Stark had called Steve away a few days earlier on Avengers business, which left Bucky home alone with nothing much to occupy his time. The government still monitored his every move, and would continue to do so for the next few months. Leaving the house was out of the question so there he sat while monotony devoured him alive.

It had been fun for the first day, being in the house by himself and left to his own devices. He ate ice cream for lunch, rearranged the pantry, alphabetized the spice rack, scrubbed the baseboards and indexed Steve’s extensive catalog of books, both by author and by title. Loneliness settled in that evening; boredom took up residence the following day. He missed Steve, everything about Steve – his bright smile, his gentle laugh, his horrible cooking - and it hadn’t even been two days.

He huffed out a miserable sigh and reached for the phone. He only knew one other person to call. 

“Hey, Bucky,” answered Sam. “What’s going on?”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“You order pizza. I’ll bring the beer.”

Ten minutes later Sam sat on the sofa next to him, sipping a cold beer and surfing Netflix titles. “You in the mood for comedy? They have the entire ‘Friday’ trilogy. I don’t care what anyone says, Ice Cube is a comic genius,” said Sam. 

Bucky shrugged so Sam kept scrolling. “Documentary?” The selections rolled by until Steve Roger’s smiling face popped up on the screen. _Captain America: The Man Behind the Shield._ Sam elbowed Bucky in the ribs. “He looks familiar.”

“I watched that last night during a fit of temporary insanity. It’s complete bullshit,” spat Bucky. His face creased into an irritated scowl. “The star-spangled man with a plan? The embodiment of truth, justice and the American way? Have they _met_ Steve?”

Sam choked on a laugh. “I take it he’s always had a healthy disrespect for authority.”

“That’s a colossal understatement,” said Bucky hotly. “The man’s never met a rule he didn’t want to break. He’ll go around, over, under and through whatever is in his way, propriety and good sense be damned. You can’t tell him no because he’ll look you in the eye and do it anyway. He may be considered brilliant at strategic planning, but I promise you, 99% of what he does is say, ‘Oh, look. There’s some danger. Let’s walk right into it.’”

Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “So, us breaking into a secure Air Force storage facility to steal a flight suit wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. “For Steve? More like a typical Monday morning.”

~*~

_Summer, 1932_

It was one of those humid, lazy summer days in Brooklyn where even the breeze felt too lethargic to blow. Heat bore down on Bucky’s shoulders and face, pricking a fine sheen of sweat along his forehead that he brushed away with the back of his hand. Steve had talked him off of the relative cool of his shady front porch and into the searing heat of the afternoon sun on a set of metal bleachers at a Dodgers game. He really didn’t want to go, but when Steve looked up at him with those big pleading eyes, he gave in. He always gave in to Steve.

The approach Steve used differed depending on location and circumstance, but it worked every single time. That particular afternoon, Steve had plopped down on the porch swing next to Bucky, folding one leg under him so his knee rested against Bucky’s thigh. “I’ll let you wear my Dodgers cap,” he’d said. He slid it off his head and a damp tangle of messy blond hair flopped down over his forehead.

“No,” Bucky demurred, studying the tiny golden freckles on the bridge of Steve’s nose. “You’ll get sunburned and your ma will never forgive me.” He took the cap from Steve’s hands and shoved it sideways back onto his friend’s head. “Come on, squirt. We’ll miss the first pitch.”

The Dodgers were at bat with two outs, two runners on and a lanky, string-bean of a first baseman at the plate. He fanned his bat at the first pitch so hard Bucky thought he could feel the air move all the way up in the cheap seats.

“Get a load of him,” said Bucky, thumbing at the batter. “Just called up from the minors and he thinks he can take a big league cut at a curveball. He’s gonna strike out and strand both runners to end the inning. Just you watch.”

But Steve wasn’t watching. He shaded his eyes with his hands and studied something going on in the box seats just behind home plate. A group of boys about their age tossed kernels of popcorn and peanut shells at a chubby girl with tight blonde ringlets seated in front of them. She looked as if she were on the verge of tears. “Somebody needs to say something,” said Steve. He leapt to his feet, jaw set. “I’m going over there.” 

“No, Steve,” Bucky said, grabbing for Steve’s arm. “That’s the VIP section. You need special tickets to get in there or something. Just let it go.”

Steve glared at Bucky with a regrettably familiar spark of fierceness in his eyes. “I know what it feels like to be bullied and I’m not letting it go. I’m setting them straight.” He yanked his arm free of Bucky’s grip and bounded down the stairs. 

“Wait! What are you gonna do? Club them to death with your baseball cap?” called Bucky.

“I dunno. I’ll figure it out when I get there,” shouted Steve over his shoulder. He stomped across the grass toward the main grandstand seats.

“Dammit,” swore Bucky under his breath. He jumped up and ran after him.

The guard at the entrance to the box seats never even looked up from his newspaper when Steve strode purposefully past him and into the VIP section, eyes fixed on the thugs a few rows up. 

Bucky skidded up to the gated entrance and hesitated. The hesitation doomed him. The guard set his paper aside. “You got a ticket, son?” 

“I’m with him,” said Bucky, pointing to where Steve now stood toe-to-toe quarreling with two guys twice his size. “You gotta let me up there.”

“I don’t gotta do nothing,” the guard said. “No ticket, no entrance.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest just as Steve took a rough blow to the chin and tumbled down three rows of bleachers. He lay dazed and sprawled sideways among peanut husks and stale popcorn until the security guard ran over and snatched him up by the elbow. “You! Outta here!” 

Steve struggled to tear away from the guard’s grasp. “Leave her alone or I’ll finish you off,” he angrily hollered up at the boys. The guard yanked his arm so hard he stumbled.

“Go home, punk,” called the larger of the two boys. “You don’t belong up here, anyway.”

Steve gritted his teeth and lunged back toward the bleachers, but the guard shoved him backward. “Out before I call someone to take both you and your friend downtown to the joint!”

Bucky wrapped a thrashing Steve in a headlock and steered him out of the box seats onto the grassy side lawn. “Fine, we’re leaving!” Bucky threw up a one-fingered salute as a parting shot.

Once outside the stadium, Bucky let Steve go, then bent to rest his hands on his knees. “Geez, I can’t go with you anywhere. How’d your ugly mug get up into the box seats, anyway?”

Steve grimaced and rubbed his jaw, which was coloring a garish shade of blue. “Easy. Act like you belong somewhere and people assume you do.” 

Bucky just shook his head. “You beat all I’ve ever seen.” He panted and wiped his brow with his forearm. 

“Wanna share a soda?” Steve turned out his pocket and held up a silver half-dollar. It shined coolly against the pink flesh of his sweaty palm.

“What?!” Bucky’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Where’d you get that?”

A mysterious smile stretched across Steve’s face. “You never know what someone might lose when he’s throwing a punch.”

Bucky threw his head back and laughed. “You sneaky little shit.”

“Come on,” said Steve, looping his arm through Bucky’s. “Soda’s on me.”

 

~*~

_Early Autumn, 1943. Italy._

The last golden shards of sunshine cut through the straggled trees near the base of the Chiunzi Pass. From there to the Naples coastline, the war raged. Bucky turned the wheel of the Jeep sharply to avoid a fallen limb blocking the roadway. In the passenger seat beside him, Steve fumbled with the buttons on the olive drab uniform. The Nazi uniform with the unmistakable red armband. The Nazi uniform that Steve had unabashedly lifted during their raid on a Nazi camp the day before. The Nazi uniform that inspired yet another one of Steve’s infuriatingly reckless ideas. Bucky recognized the instant inspiration hit. It was a flicker, nothing more than a faint spark behind those blue eyes, but Bucky knew it like he knew the sting of a right hook to the jaw. That insidious flicker in Steve’s eyes had landed him in the middle of more tight spots than he could count. And he’d just landed in the middle of the tightest one yet.

Steve turned the rearview mirror to get a better look at himself, and adjusted the cap on his head. “How do I look?”

Bucky batted his hand away and yanked the mirror back toward him. “Like a poster child for the Aryan Nation,” he muttered. 

“Great,” Steve said with a devious grin. “They’ll never see it coming.”

No, it was most certainly not great. Nothing about Steve’s half-assed mission could even remotely be considered great, unless you considered strolling into an occupied town with a stolen Nazi uniform and a sketchy plan to be great. Bucky thought it was asinine, not that Steve would listen. He took his eyes off the potholed road to steal a glance at his friend. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

“Then that makes you one for hanging out with me,” Steve shot back. His eyes gleamed in the fading light. 

Bucky pulled the Jeep up behind the abandoned rubble of a building that had probably been a grocery store at one point. “We’ll have to hoof it from here,” he said, dropping the keys in his pocket. Since there was only one uniform, Bucky wore Steve’s brown leather jacket and a cap pulled down over his eyes. He hoped his spotty Italian would be enough for him to pass as a local.

“Let’s get a move on. I want to be in town before it gets too dark.” Steve set off at a brisk pace, shoulders thrown back, chin in the air. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do when you get there? Hell, do you even know where ‘there’ is?” Bucky fell in line beside him, practically jogging to keep up.

“The base of operations is in the church off the main street. I’m going to walk in and take a peek at the list of airstrike targets,” Steve casually replied as if he were discussing Saturday afternoon plans to see a movie.

Bucky’s nostrils flared. “You can’t just walk into a Nazi command site, Steve. You’re the most recognizable soldier on earth. You’re Captain America, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m not recognizable, Buck, the costume is. The helmet covers half of my face. Nobody will notice a thing. All I have to do is act like I belong there and they’ll buy it.” 

Steve’s brash confidence bordered on suicidal and made Bucky want to punch the taste out of his mouth. Instead, he settled for clenching and unclenching his fists as he marched. “If we die, I’m going to kill you.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Steve. His bravado was palpable. “In and out. No big deal.”

~*~

The town looked like someone had kicked over an anthill. Soldiers swarmed past them, ducking into abandoned storefronts and rushing in and out of a small stone church with a crumbling steeple. Bucky kept his head down and followed Steve up to the front steps.

“Wait here,” said Steve under his breath. “If I’m not out in ten, leave without me.”

“Like hell,” hissed Bucky. “I’m coming in with you.”

“You can’t,” Steve replied. The cockiness he’d sported all day long faded from his eyes, and his brows lowered. “A civilian would never enter a command base without direct orders to do so. They’ll shoot you.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut. Steve was right. “Fine.” 

Steve squared his shoulders, marched up the steps, pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside without so much as a look behind him.

Bucky shuffled back down to the street and leaned against a lamppost, trying to blend in. The soldiers who passed in the waning twilight by barely noticed him. Few civilians were still about this late in the day. Most had gone home for dinner. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

The rumble of a large supply truck shook the ground as it pulled up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see several young German soldiers hop out of the back of it. He lowered his eyes and took a step forward, when a hand on his shoulder stopped him cold. A tall soldier stepped in front of him and held out an empty wooden case that once held Chianti. “Mehr wein,” he commanded. [More wine.]

Bucky stamped out his cigarette and looked up at the soldier, confused. “Wein?” His mind raced. They clearly thought he was someone else, but where would he find wine?

The blond soldier pointed to the church. “Im Abstellraum. Geh.” [The storeroom. Go.]

At least he had an excuse to go check on Steve. Bucky hoisted the empty crate onto his shoulder and climbed the stairs to the front door.

The church was a mere shell of its former glory. The Nazis had gutted it nearly down to the studs. Anything of value – paintings, communion vessels, artifacts, leaded glass windows – lay stacked in a corner of the building awaiting transport back to Germany. What was once the pulpit was now a long strategy table covered from end-to-end in maps and telegrams and communications transcripts. 

Bucky headed for what he hoped was storage at the rear of the church. He dared a risky glance around to try and spot Steve, but out of the corner of his eye all the soldiers looked the same. His stomach churned nervously. A small door to the rectory on side of the pulpit swung on its hinges, slightly ajar. He pushed it open with the heel of his hand, revealing a small room with a single window. Supplies and dry goods formed stacks that rose nearly to the ceiling. The wine crates lined the far wall. As Bucky stepped inside and dropped the empty crate on the floor, the door clicked shut behind him. A large hand closed over his nose and mouth and another one clamped around his chest. Bucky’s heart thudded with raw fear.

“Shh,” breathed Steve into his ear. “Window. Now.”

They quietly pried it open and climbed out, dropped down into a small alleyway, and then walked swiftly to the side street behind the church.

“Well? Did you find the plans for the next targets?” asked Bucky over the thumping of his still racing heart.

“Yep. Got ‘em right here,” said Steve, tapping the breast pocket of his uniform. “All of them.”

“You _stole_ them??” sputtered Bucky. “You were supposed to just look at them! Of all the cock-eyed things to do, you stole the plans!? How long before they realize they’re gone?”

A cry of dismay rose up behind them, followed by the sounding of an alarm. “I’m guessing not long,” quipped Steve with a cocksure grin. “Run!”

They hurtled through the maze of streets, ducking into alleyways and dashing through a bombed out neighborhood until they emerged in the countryside on the other side of town. 

“Where we heading?” Bucky struggled mightily to keep up the breakneck pace Steve had set. 

“There!” Steve pointed to some lights on a hillside not too far away.

They ran through a grassy pasture, over a rickety wooden footbridge that spanned a rocky creek bed and up the hilly pathway to another small town. It was well after dark by the time they slipped inside a small, empty, dimly-lit café. The owner, a short gray-haired man with a bulbous nose and a fragrant cigar, eyed Steve’s Nazi uniform with barely restrained contempt. “Chiuso,” he said, waving them back toward the door. [Closed]

“No, no,” cried Steve. He grappled with the red swastika armband, finally ripping it off with a fierce tug. “It’s a disguise! Travestimento!” He tossed the armband on the floor, followed by his cap, and pleaded with the shop owner. “I swear it!”

“We’re Americans,” added Bucky. “And we sure could use your help.”

“Ah! You should have said sooner,” the owner replied in heavily accented English. “What do you need? Room? Food?”

“Yes to both,” said Steve. He pulled a large wad of crumpled paper money out of his pocket and put it on the nearest table. 

“Where’d you get the greenbacks?” Bucky’s eyes were as large as dinner plates.

“Came with the uniform.” Steve’s lips twisted into a smug little smirk.

The owner ambled behind the bar and produced a large key. “Top of the stairs.” He then wrapped a hunk of fragrant cheese and a loaf of crusty bread in brown paper and handed it to them. “Wine is in room. Go.”

“Grazie,” said Steve. “We’ll be gone by morning.”

They took the key and the food and climbed the stairs to the room on the top floor. It was small and sparsely furnished, but clean and had an attached bath. Steve crossed the room to check the window, while Bucky locked the door behind them and flipped on the small lamp next to the bed.

“I don’t think they followed us,” said Steve as he scanned the streets below, “but they have probably found the Jeep we hid by now.”

“Great,” said Bucky. “Looks like we’ll be hitching it back to camp.”

Steve turned and leaned back against the windowsill. “Probably. We’ll deal with that tomorrow.”

Bucky sank down onto the bed, exhausted. “I can’t believe we made it out of there alive.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” chuckled Steve.

“It’s not funny.” Anger flashed in Bucky’s grey eyes.

Steve’s expression sobered. “You’re right. It was dangerous and I should have gone alone.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have gone,” countered Bucky. “We all should have gone. There’s an elite group of soldiers, hand-picked by you, just waiting for an assignment like this and you didn’t use them.”

Steve raised his palms. “What other choice did I have? If I’d brought the commandos and stormed the place, they’d have seen us coming and taken off before we got the maps and coordinates for the air strikes. I did what I thought needed to be done and I’d do it again.”

“That’s the problem, Steve,” said Bucky, his voice rising. “You’re gonna keep running headlong into disaster until you get hurt. You may be Captain America, but you’re not bulletproof.” 

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Buck,” said Steve evenly.

“You don’t know that.” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “All it takes is one stray bullet.”

Steve pursed his lips and stared up at the peeling paint on the ceiling before he replied. “For so long, I was weak, always needed help from Ma, from you. But Dr. Erskine gave me this gift. I’m meant to use it,” he said with conviction. “I won’t ignore who I am, who Doc created me to be, so please don’t ask me to.”

“I don’t know what I’m asking,” Bucky said, “but I can’t keep doing this. Wondering every time you run off half-cocked if it’ll be the last time I see you.” He raked his fingers roughly through his hair.

“Don’t you think I worry about you, too? War is unpredictable.”

“I’m not the one always running toward danger. You are,” snapped Bucky. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m tired of arguing. I’m taking a bath.”

He dragged his weary body into the small adjacent bathroom and stripped down as the tub filled with warm water. The argument weighed heavily on his mind. He knew it wasn’t fair to ask Steve to not be Captain America, but he hated the way his heart crushed with worry every time Steve flung himself eagerly into harm’s way. 

The tub was long and deep, and the warm water soothed his aching limbs. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool porcelain. The door creaked open, but he didn’t bother to look up.

“Want some company?”

“Nope.” Bucky pointedly kept his eyes closed.

“Too bad. I’m coming in.” 

“There’s not enough room.”

“Sure there is. Scoot up.”

“No, I’m comfortable. Wait your turn.”

“…Bucky, please?”

Bucky popped one eye open and immediately regretted it. Steve wore nothing but a smile, and what a beautiful thing it was, that smile. The one that left Bucky breathless and weak in the knees, the one he never could resist. He swallowed down the lovesick feeling twisting in the pit of his stomach and reluctantly scooted forward.

Steve settled into the tub behind him, his legs stretched out on either side. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Yes.” 

“If I wash your back, will you forgive me?” Steve soaped up his hands and began rubbing them along the tops of Bucky’s shoulders.

“You can’t bargain your way out of this one, Rogers.” 

“Maybe not,” said Steve. He cupped a handful of warm water and let it run down the back of Bucky’s neck. “But I can try.”

At that moment, Bucky knew he had a choice to make: press the issue and let the evening descend into a bitter argument or give into the strong hands that roamed freely over his torso. He leaned back against Steve’s broad chest and chose the latter. “I’m not sure you’re up to the task.”

Steve grunted as Bucky’s firm bottom moved against him. “Not yet, but keep that up and I will be.” He slid his hands along Bucky’s sides and over the flat plains of his abdomen.

“That’s not my back.” Bucky sucked in a sharp gasp as wandering fingertips brushed his inner thighs. 

“Well, what do you know? It’s sure not.” He took Bucky’s cock firmly in hand and began to stroke.

Bucky’s hips moved in time with Steve’s touches. Steve spread his legs wider and pulled Bucky’s firm bottom hard against his own growing erection. The tub thunked a loud rhythm against the wooden floorboards. Water sloshed out in thick splatters. The last threads of anger Bucky had been clinging to dissipated like warm steam in the cool night air. He clutched at the sides of the tub and looked back over his shoulder with eyes heavy-lidded with need. His lips parted. “Steve,” he breathed. “I…”

Whatever response lingered on the tip of his tongue fled the instant Steve dipped his head and claimed his lips in a kiss that melted through him like warm honey. It puddled right in the center of him and sent him floating over the edge into shuddering bliss. He slumped bonelessly against Steve, who laved his neck and stubbled jaw with little nibbles and soft kisses.

“I’m going to consider myself forgiven,” mouthed Steve against the curve of his neck.

Bucky smiled in spite of himself. “For now,” he panted.

~*~

_Present Day_

The movie ended just before 11pm. Scraps of pizza crusts and paper plates littered the coffee table. Sam flipped through Netflix selections for another movie while Bucky ambled to the fridge for more beer. 

“Pick out an action movie this time. Maybe something with aliens,” called Bucky from the kitchen.

The first few notes of a Pharell song jangled from Sam’s phone, and Bucky froze in place. Calls this late in the evening were never good news. He knew that from experience. _Steve._ He dropped the six-pack of beer on the counter and dashed back into the den

“What’s happened to Steve?” Bucky’s heart sank to his toes.

Sam’s eyes clouded. “He’s been shot.”

~*~

Fingertips carded through his hair, stroked over his forehead, brushed down his cheek. Bucky blinked, disoriented. At some point during the night, he’d fallen asleep slumped over against the side of Steve’s hospital bed, his head cradled in the crook of his arm. He sat up and reached for the hand that caressed him, threading their fingers together. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Steve rasped in reply. “Have you been here all night?”

“Yeah. Me and the two armed guards outside the door. You know, in case I crack and try to take down everyone in ICU.”

Steve chuckled, then winced as a jolt of pain shot through his heavily bandaged shoulder. “At this point, I’m probably more of a danger to myself than you are.”

Bucky gave Steve’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve sighed. “Tony called Clint and me in to take down a rogue Hydra cell north of the city. Quick hit. Five targets located, five targets eliminated. We were back at Stark Towers for debrief when a call came in that we’d missed one and that he was still in the area. I took off and didn’t wait for Tony or Clint. I thought I could handle it on my own. Pretty dumb, right?”

“Yep. This time you took all the stupid with you.” Bucky stroked his thumb lightly against the back of Steve’s hand. 

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve said quietly. 

Those words dangled out there like a loose thread on a slowly unraveling sweater that Bucky did not want to pull. Words woven with unmistakable meaning and unfulfilled promises and unchecked guilt. Words that hinted at things better left in the past, at least for now. 

Bucky dropped his gaze and studied the way their fingers fit together, slotting perfectly as if they were made to do so. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” That was all that really mattered.

~*~

Steve left the hospital the next day with a prescription for Percocet and strict orders to take it easy. “Even Captain America needs time to recover,” the doctor had said. Steve grudgingly agreed.

Sam and Bucky loaded Steve into the front seat of Sam’s SUV. “We’ll swing by Adam’s Drugs on the way home to fill the prescription,” said Sam. “If you’ll give me your ID, I can run in and get it while you sit in the car with Bucky.”

“Do I need a babysitter now?” griped Steve.

“No, that would be me.” Bucky grinned and patted Steve’s arm. “The retired assassin who’s liable to snap and take out half of DC.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the drug store and noticed a commotion at the bank across the street. Sam rolled down the window and flagged down a passerby. “What’s going on?”

“Robbery, far as I can tell. Someone said there are hostages inside, but I don’t know for sure,” said the man.

That was all Steve needed to hear. “Hand me my shield, Bucky.”

Bucky grabbed the shield and wrapped both arms around it. “No.”

“It wasn’t a question, it was a statement,” said Steve with a look hard enough to rip through steel.

“And I’m not handing it over. Wait for backup,” said Bucky. He hugged the shield to his chest. “Please. For me.”

Steve’s face softened. He snatched Sam’s phone from the dashboard and dialed 9-1-1. “This is Captain Steve Rogers. I’m on site at the First Savings Bank on the corner of Ripley and 9th. What’s the ETA on police backup?” He nodded and hung up. “I think I can wait 90 seconds.”

“You just got out of the hospital. Are you sure you’re up to this?” Bucky eyed the bandages on Steve’s shoulder, but he already knew the answer.

“I’d better be, because I’m going in,” said Steve. A hint of that old familiar bravado twinkled in his eyes.

A police siren screamed behind them. Bucky turned the shield over in his hands. Once Steve made up his mind, there was no stopping him, but slowing him down to wait for help was at least a step in the right direction, and he reckoned he could live with that. For now. He handed the shield over to Steve. “Go get ‘em, Cap.”


End file.
